by Sharon Lee
“Mentor?”
Tolly shook himself, and looked up to the corner of the ceiling, addressing Admiral Bunter direct.
“Sure,” he said. “Show me the math.
“In the meantime, you’d best get us into Jump.”
Vivulonj Prosperu
“Daav, will you dance with me?”
They had dutifully sought their bunk and engaged the webbing when the end-Jump sounded; releasing it again when the all-clear came. Disposing themselves more comfortably, they had napped and, upon waking, eaten a leisurely meal.
The next scheduled exercise session resided yet two hours in the future, and they were on the prowl for occupation.
Daav looked up from the entertainment screen he had been perusing.
“Klaxons?” he murmured.
“The small dance,” Aelliana answered, raising her arms slowly over her head, palms pointed toward the ceiling. “Surely there’s no harm in that.”
“Do you know, I am not nearly so certain as you seem to be. However, I agree that we may only learn our limits by testing them.”
She laughed.
“Do you think Uncle has had pilots in his care before? Surely, he cannot believe that we will sit idle or sleep for so many hours a day.”
“I wager the Uncle has…rehabilitated many pilots in his time. He may, however, lack experience of Korval pilots.”
“That is very likely,” she said gravely. “He cannot possibly know what manner of mischief we might promote if we are allowed to become bored.”
She lowered her arms, palms toward the floor, pushing, as if the air were resisting her.
Daav moved away from the console.
“A salubrious lesson is a handsome gift, I allow,” he said, coming to stand before her.
“Precisely. Tell me, is there anything useful on the console?”
“Perhaps so. I recognized several rather cerebral games, so you see that we aren’t meant to vegetate, no matter how much we are told to rest. On a quick scan, the plays seem to err on the side of comedy. There are novels, but no histories. We are not offered news, nor even Taggerth’s, speaking of comedy.”
“We are meant, in a word, to be calm,” Aelliana said.
“So it seems. Do you dance in truth, my lady, or will you have a game of counterchance?”
“Dance and counterchance!”
She took a deep breath, looked down, and placed her feet correctly, a smile at the corner of her mouth, which he dared to think was simple pleasure at once again having feet to place.
“Some might think that a bold schedule,” he commented.
She looked up into his face.
“Too bold for us, van’chela?”
“Was there ever anything too bold for us?”
“Never! Let us do the basic stretch sequence.”
“Lead and I will follow.”
She smiled at him, and he felt of a sudden an enveloping warmth. Tears started to his eyes, as her love suffused him, so that she sparkled somewhat around the edges as she pressed the palms of her hands together at the level of her heart, and took the deep and mindful breath that began the sequence.
* * * * *
Refreshed, Dulsey returned to the bridge and slipped into the pilot’s chair.
“All well, Pilot?” she asked, placing her palm against the pad.
“We have been undisturbed, and our progress has been good,” Uncle Yuri said. “The board comes back to you, Pilot.”
She accepted control of first board with a finger tap, and leisurely perused the screens. The Jump point was still over a Standard Hour distant; there was no traffic within the range of their scans—not surprising. There was very little in this section of space for anyone to want, save the Jump point itself, which was why they had routed through it.
An anomaly on the scan at the bottom of her systems screen drew her eye: the guest quarters monitor.
Dulsey touched a button, bringing the live feed up, and considered two figures moving with graceful deliberation. She flicked her gaze to the tells for heart rate and oxygen use, finding both well within parameters. As they would be, of course, given their exercise of choice.
“Our guests are dancing daibri’at,” she said.
“And you find that amusing?” Yuri asked, not bothering to look up from his screens.
“I find Pilot Caylon’s commitment to doing something admirable.”
She gave the feed her attention once more. Their guests were working through the entry-level stretches, Pilot Caylon setting a pace which was conservative, even by the standards of the dance. Both pilots seemed balanced, centered, and in no imminent danger of overexertion—observations that continued to be reflected in the stats.
“Neither seems at risk,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. Yuri remained focused on his screens, the side of his face uncommunicative, perhaps, to one who knew him less well.
“What’s amiss?” she asked.
“You have Andreth’s report in your queue, but you will of course not had time to read it.” At last, he spun the chair and faced her fully.
“Allow me to summarize.”
“Please,” she said, and waited.
He nodded, closing his eyes for a moment, as if to recruit himself.
“Yes. You will recall that two operatives were apprehended at the very doors of the Catalinc Project. One was damaged past healing. The other remained intact. More or less.
“It comes about that the intact operative seeks to convince Andreth that his treatment in captivity, coupled with a close observation of our systems, have kindled in him a profound respect for ourselves and our goals. He proposes to change allegiances and bend his considerable skills to our cause.”
He bowed his head, spreading his hands in a gesture of ironic magnanimity.
“Gratifying,” said Dulsey.
“Indeed. He is, however, less than forthcoming regarding the allegiance he wishes to betray, though he allows himself to be an industrial spy. There is, you understand, only himself on the table. We are not offered any surety, nor any gift of data from his previous allegiance. That is…troubling.
“However, in the case of his partner, whom Andreth had the foresight to download when it became clear that he would not survive his injuries—that one offers us a bargain which lies somewhere between interesting and alarming.”
Yuri was not easily dismayed, yet Dulsey, who knew him as none other, saw dismay now.
“What is it?”
He sighed and gave her a smile of sorts.
“The downloaded individual wishes to have from us a new body, new papers, and a ship. For these things, he offers information—codes and other as yet unspecified data—and, to demonstrate that he is in earnest, he gives us the coordinates that describe Seignur Veeoni’s location.”
Dulsey sat back in her chair, suddenly chilly, as if an ill wind had whispered through the bridge.
Seignur Veeoni’s work was vital to the success of the Catalinc Project. She had not yet been on site, as her work had not come to the point where she must interface with the rest of the Project. Her location was secure—had been secure.
“How does he come by this information?” she asked.
“He is coy and says only that he had at first been part of another squad, with a separate goal. At the last moment, he was transferred to the team tasked with infiltrating the Catalinc Project.”
Dulsey looked at him sharply.
“Another team. This means that they may have already approached Seignur Veeoni.”
“Peace.” The Uncle raised his hand gently. “We should certainly have heard, had there been an attempt upon her.”
That was true, but hardly comforting. The scholar was well guarded, and by no means a fool, but the team Andreth had intercepted should not have been able to penetrate so far as they had. Surely, those sent to fetch Seignur Veeoni would be no less apt.
“Have we the employer’s identity?” she asked. “Not, I take it, the Department of th
e Interior.”
“No, I think we may hold the Department excused from this exercise. I believe that our operations may have become…interesting to the Lyre Institute. We had expected that news of the work would leak. A project of such scope cannot be kept a secret. There will be rumors, and whispers and…those who will pursue such.”
He moved his shoulders. “So! I had very little hope that we could keep Catalinc a secret.
“Rumors regarding my sister’s work, however—that I had hoped we could keep below the level of space-lane gossip. It seems we have made a notable failure there.”
He turned his hands palm up, a simple gesture, denoting complex actions.
“Seignur Veeoni’s few publications were meant to divert attention from her real work. If she—or her work—comes into the hands of the Lyre Institute…if the Light in its present state is removed from our oversight—I fear the outcome, should the Institute accomplish either. If they succeed in both of their objectives…I dislike the word catastrophe, but I feel in this case it is apt.”
He closed his eyes again. Dulsey waited. After a moment, he spoke.
“A course change, Dulsey. We go with all speed to my sister. She cannot be left exposed.”
“And our guests?” Dulsey asked.
Yuri sighed and opened his eyes.
“I will ask after the location of Korval’s pinnaces. If the detour is supportable, we will make it and send our guests on their way. They will be given instructions on how best to care for themselves. Seignur Veeoni must not be exposed to the eyes of the curious—nor to Korval’s Luck.”
Dulsey sighed. Their guests would be out of active danger in another two Standard Days. Even at all speed, they would not arrive at Seignur Veeoni’s location so soon. They were intelligent, the Korval pilots. The odds for their long-term survival were…not bad. Not good, perhaps, but not bad. With Korval’s Luck on their side, they ought to do very well, indeed.
She spun the chair and addressed her board.
“Filing change of course,” she said.
Surebleak
Ren Zel walked carefully over the surface roots to the Tree itself, and stood for a long moment, hands in pockets, looking up into dark branches.
He had come into Clan Korval as Anthora yos’Galan’s lifemate. While he acknowledged that the Tree was sentient, and a meddler of high order, he had not otherwise concerned himself with it. And after its initial utter disruption of his life, the Tree had seemed to forget about him. Aside from the pods it had bestowed to perhaps indicate its approval of his mating with Anthora, it had offered him no others, though his clan-mates—and his wife—often received such gifts from its branches.
There being no reason for him to seek the Tree Court, he seldom did so. And to think of the Tree Court as a place of succor and peace—that he had never done.
And yet, fully intending to find Mr. Brunner in the weather lab and review with him the implementation of the next phase, he found himself instead turning down a short hallway and exiting the house through a door that opened onto the inner garden. Some part of him had been surprised, but his feet were certain, and they had brought him here, to the Tree itself, and only then allowed him to stop.
Ren Zel bowed gently, as one might to a grandfather not one’s own, but beloved of others who were dear to one.
“I am here,” he said conversationally. “It was rather less of a journey this time.”
Above him, leaves rustled gently, as if the Tree chuckled at the pleasantry.
He smiled slightly.
“If you have produced a pod which will allow me to withstand the Shadow until the time is come to embrace it, I will be most delighted to receive the gift.”
Another susurration among the leaves, though there was no breeze moving within the court. The Tree was perhaps concerned, solicitous.
“Yes, I do understand my part,” he said, “and I will thank you to shield Anthora so much as you might when the moment arrives. She will take it ill.”
A short rustle: the Tree was puzzled.
“You ought not to have made her love me,” Ren Zel told it sternly. “You might have enthralled me alone, with no risk to your result. She will do herself a hurt, trying to protect me.”
The leaves moved softly; a cool breeze kissed his cheek. Apparently the Tree had all in hand, and he was not to tease himself.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, he was pressed against the Tree, his arms reaching ’round the monumental trunk, as if they shared an embrace. How he had crossed that last distance—well. Here in its own court, the Tree ordered all as it wished.
Nor had the Tree’s whim played him ill. Indeed, he was refreshed, as if from a full night’s sleep; alert and strong.
“I thank you,” he said, standing away from the trunk. “It was kindly done.”
The breeze played with his hair, for all the worlds like a fond aunt.
From above him came the sound of leaves loudly rustling, as if something fell through them from a height.
He did not leap aside; it did not occur to him to move. Rather, he held out a hand and caught the pod before it struck the ground.
A sweet and subtle scent reached him, and he was suddenly ravenous. He brought his other hand up, meaning to crack the pod, but he had scarcely touched it when it fell into quarters, each tempting and plump.
He had no need of such encouragement; he would have eaten the gift if it had neither odor nor taste, merely for the hope of the good it might do.
Though, he admitted, as he put the last section into his mouth, it was pleasant that the pod was delicious, and that it satisfied his appetite for it completely. Setting aside his renewed energy levels, however, he felt…not much changed. But what had he expected to feel, after all?
“I thank you,” he said again, and the breeze this time was a bit stronger, pushing at his shoulder. His audience was over and the Tree wished him gone. Well enough.
“A good day to you,” he said, bowed farewell, turned—and paused to consider his lifemate, standing a little to the side, holding a shawl-wrapped bundle in her arms, and her whole attention upon the Tree.
He remained motionless and silent, unwilling to disturb her or to wake the child—until, between one blink and the next, they were vanished, leaving behind a sense of bittersweet joy.
It was rare, he reflected, that he was given so clear a vision. Perhaps that was what the Tree’s gift had wrought.
One more breath, and a small smile for the future before he left the court, returning to the house and the duties of the day.
* * * * *
Yulie Shaper was not clan, but he was Tree-kin, in addition to being a good neighbor.
Which was why Val Con was walking across the dry and dead Liaden grass toward the crack in the earth that served as a boundary of Korval’s land.
As promised, Memit had sent word through Kezzi—that word being that she, with a sister and two of their brothers, would assist Farmer Shaper in the matter of getting in the harvest. Also, they would embrace the project of turning grapes into wine.
And that had been the last he had heard on the matter for six days. He considered it extremely unlikely that the Bedel had murdered Yulie Shaper. However, it was equally possible that they had found the work unworthy and taken themselves off or that they had “found” among Yulie Shaper’s belongings, items that would best reside with the Bedel.
In any case, it was what a neighbor would do, especially one who had offered a solving in the case—to walk over and ascertain that all was well.
It was a bright day, the sky free of clouds for the moment at least, and the air chill enough to encourage a brisk pace, with the collar turned up to shield neck and ears.
He paused at the boundary, hands tucked into his pockets, and made a careful survey. The crack itself was not so noticeable as it had been when the house had first been settled into the old quarry. Another six or a dozen applications of native dirt and the line would be in
visible to the eye. By that time, the Liaden grass would have been replaced by Surebleak’s sort—though he was irrationally pleased to see that Surebleak’s sort, on Yulie Shaper’s land, was equally brown and dry.
The house garden had been carefully turned—just as their own garden had been—and perennials cut down to ground level.
Jelaza Kazone’s gardener had been in consultation with Mr. Shaper regarding the best method for resting and protecting the garden over Surebleak’s winter. On his advice, the turned soil had been seeded with snow-oats, which would grow rapidly, then die in the first “deep cold,” thereby providing a layer of protection, as well as nutrients for next year’s crop.
Val Con took his hands out of his pockets and let them hang, loose-fingered and obviously empty, at his side. Then, he stepped over the healing crack and onto his neighbor’s land.
* * *
Approaching the garden plot, he could see that there was a slight fuzzing of green over the soil, which was, he supposed, the beginning crop of snow-oats.
As he crossed the clearing, a cat slid out of the shrubbery and kept pace with him; another cat joining them as they struck the path to the house. He nodded in greeting and proceeded at a very casual pace, following the wandering path around large rocks and trees, cats attaching themselves to him as he went on.
He paused by the bunker rock, listening, and moving on when no hail was forthcoming.
By the time he had reached the end of the path, his feline honor guard had grown to six, every tail held proud and high.
He did not cross immediately into the dooryard, but stood where he was sheltered somewhat by branches. Yulie Shaper was a crack shot, and had, in the past, been prone to shooting at anyone who arrived at his house unexpectedly.
“Mr. Shaper!” he called. “It is Val Con yos’Phelium, your neighbor. May I come forward?”
“Hey, Boss!” Yulie Shaper sounded positively ebullient. “I was hopin’ you’d come on by! Been meaning to get up the house and talk to you myself, but we just been that busy. C’mon in the kitchen, got some coffee just brewed, and some tea, too!”
